


Slices of Life

by BloodylocksBathory



Series: Of Beasts and Fire [6]
Category: Jonah Hex (2010), The Lone Ranger (2013)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Burke is an adorable little shit, Butch is a grouch, Challenge Response, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams and Nightmares, Groping, Hair Kink, Hallucinations, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Massage, Milk And Cookies, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Recreational Drug Use, Sleep, Slice of Life, Spooning, Touchy-Feely, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3436964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodylocksBathory/pseuds/BloodylocksBathory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moments of (mostly) non-sexual intimacy between an arsonist and cannibal. Not as boring as it sounds!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Finding the Other Wearing Their Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> I came across a little writing challenge (http://thatotherrpmeme.tumblr.com/post/96581838082/nonsexual-acts-of-intimacy-select-from-the) and decided to do it as a little series of drabbles and ficlets. Non-sexual intimacy is proving difficult, both because this couple is very sexual, and I'm apparently bad at writing without sex scenes involved. Whoops.  
> Also, these mostly aren't within any specific chronology of the already established stories.

If a hangover could ever be possible from too much fucking, Butch Cavendish was feeling one right now. Anyone in the gang who was somehow not wise to their relationship likely was this morning. For a moment he checked the room to make sure all of their activity had not sent their bed crashing through the floor and into the parlor room. As he looked around, head aching, he noticed Burke had awoken already.

The Irishman was adjusting his hair in a mirror, grinning at Butch through his reflection. The shirt he wore was open, exposing the boundaries of his moko just under his collarbone, but Butch hardly noticed. What he did notice was...

"Those'r my clothes," he said, brain still muddled by sleep.

"Very good," Burke replied, tone jokingly condescending. Whilst he struggled to keep the trousers from sliding down his legs, he buttoned up the shirt, admiring himself in the mirror.

 _Vain little shit_ , Butch thought.

"I quite like these," the Irish rogue stated. "Black's very classy. Maybe I'll wear it the rest of the day."

"What, and make me wear yours??" Butch exclaimed. "I'll rip'em to pieces; they only fit on _your_ scrawny ass."

Burke smiled, agreeing. Though he was quite fit, he was thinner than others. His pale frame was coated in wiry muscle, so at least he had that quality over someone like Skinny. The fact that Burke's arms indicated just how much damage he was capable of with a single punch set the pulse in Cavendish's groin to raging.

Slowly rising from the bed, Butch strode over to the mirror, standing behind Burke and looking at themselves. Burke grinned at him through their reflection, showing every tooth, and slipped on the braces, or else his new trousers would slide off.

"They're so big on you," Butch muttered, his voice at that familiar husky pitch. "So loose... damn easy to get my hands in."

Fingers spread, he slipped his palms down between skin and cloth and stopped at the halves of Burke's rump, cupping the cheeks. Burke moaned softly, smiling as he nuzzled Butch. All of these sounds and touches were causing Butch to forget his headache from the sex-hangover.

"Whatta ya think?" he murmured, squeezing. "A little hair of the dog?"

Another moan was released, breathier than the last, against his neck. Burke turned to fully face him, kissing a scraggly beard before slipping off the braces. The trousers fell to the floor.

In no time at all, Burke had changed his mind about wearing Butch's clothes for the day.


	2. One Playing With the Other's Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke learns a lesson in boundaries.

After an evening of drinking and laughter, the farmhouse eventually fell into the quiet of the gang retiring to their quarters, one by one. Butch was in bed, laying on his stomach and flipping through papers he had found in a nearby desk. He examined the floor plans of the house out of curiosity, in case the gang had missed any secret passages. After a few drinks, he was starting to feel like a pirate searching for buried treasure.

He nearly fell asleep when the door swung open. Slightly wobbly from the alcohol, Burke entered and descended onto the bed with a plop. Resting an illustrated chin on his hand, he dozed off for a few minutes until he slid off of the propped up arm, jolting awake.

Giving a snort of a laugh, Butch went back to looking through the papers, turning his attention away from the other man. Burke looked over his shoulder at the floor plans for only a moment, quickly bored, and decided instead to engage in one of his favorite subjects to play with. As Cavendish gazed over the floor plans, he looked nowhere near his lover's direction, so the Irishmen lifted an inked hand and very slowly reached out, ever closer until Butch whipped his head around, looking ready to glare literal daggers at him.

"You're on your way to a handfulla less fingers," the older outlaw growled.

"Alright, alright!" Burke pulled his hands away, palms open as though to show he had no weapons. He meant no harm, but the temptation was just so great, despite knowing he could get something on his person eaten if he crossed the line.

"Why do ya insist on touching my damn hair?" Butch asked irritably, sitting upright.

Burke shrugged, giving a beatific smile that looked more idiotic that usual, thanks to the liquor. "No reason. I like gettin' it me'self. I was hoping ye would too."

Butch's eyes narrowed as he stared at Burke, deep in thought, at least as much as the liquor could allow. Finally he leaned forward and placed one of his big hands on the other's head, gently tugging at the hair.

"Whatta ya like? Ya like this?"

Burke's eyes instantly shut in bliss at the attention he was paid. He tried to jokingly purr and only managed a gurgle, chuckling at the failure. The fingers danced further back, just above the base of the skull, still stroking and tugging.

"How about this?"

"Hmn," Burke managed to breathe out a response. He was about to melt against Butch's touch, in absolute heaven, when suddenly he felt the sharp pain of his hair being yanked as his head was jerked backwards. He gasped in surprise (not to mention discomfort) as he was forced to look into his lover's ghostly blue eyes.

"How about now?" Butch whispered.

Burke gave a wry smile. "If the whiskey doesn't give me a sore head, your idea of tenderness certainly will."


	3. One Caring For the Other While Ill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Butch injured, Burke turns to a reliable remedy... or two.

Butch felt another dreadful tickle of an encroaching cough. He tried not to cough very harshly, knowing the unavoidable pain (as well as the risk of pneumonia), but it could not be helped. He would have sighed in frustration if the act would not send him into another fit. Ribs were too damn slow to mend.

His hacking was stifled a torturous half minute later, just as Burke was walking toward him from the campfire. In his hands was a bowl, steam wafting from its contents.

"Frank made ye some broth," he said, lifting the bowl for emphasis. "I regret to say it's only made from chicken. Nothin' so sophisticated as long pork."

Butch glared at the bowl and spoon.

"You ain't feedin' me like some invalid," he said resolutely.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Burke replied, surprised at his own patience. He carefully placed the bowl in his friend's lap. "Use yer other arm at least. And mind how hot it is."

With his right ribs intact, Cavendish had to avoid using his left hand. Even so, even the smallest movements in his body urged the pain in those few fractured bones in his torso. Taking a careful spoonful, he lifted his arm and felt the instantaneous stab of pain penetrate his body. His hand, as well as the spoon it held, shook as he raised it to his scarred lips. The wince was visible, and Butch's frustration was sadly evident. Burke kept all sense of pity from his face, however. Both men were fiercely stubborn, and he was thus determined to refrain from helping until he was asked. This would likely take a while.

Upon finally getting the broth in his mouth, Butch noticed the bitterness within the soup's flavor.

"Willow bark again," he stated with sarcastic enthusiasm. "My favorite."

"And whiskey," Burke noted aloud as though hurt by the lack of recognition. He winked. "Might not do much for the pain, but it should help ye sleep. Too bad we don't have any laudanum..."

"Don't need laudanum," Butch said between trembling spoonfuls. "Ain't becomin' no opium eater on account of a few cracked ribs." The temptation, however, was terrible. In his attempts to feed himself, he winced again, which only made the pain worse. Thank heavens for the whiskey. Halfway through the meal, he could feel it taking hold.

Burke watched as his partner slowly but surely finished the broth, likely determined to take the pain relief more than the nourishment. Already drained of strength from his healing, Butch began to drift out of consciousness as he set down the bowl. The Irish outlaw gingerly arranged him into a more reclined position, not only to better recover but to guarantee Butch was comfortable, or at least as much as he could be.

"Yer my brave, beautiful devil," he cooed into his drowsing sweetheart's ear. Butch only grunted in response, unable to do much else as sleep overtook him. Smile broadening, Burke remained at his side a little longer until he was certain the other was sleeping soundly. Only then did he return to the campfire for his own share of dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did Butch break his ribs? That will be answered in a later story.


	4. Falling Asleep, Head in the Other's Lap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke is (as usual) annoying, Butch (as usual) finds a way for him to be quiet.

Burke yawned for the third time, this one more pointed and deliberately loud than the last. Butch glanced his way, unimpressed.

"Yes?"

"Oh nuthin'," the Irishman replied, stretching his arms and shoulders as much as the space around them could allow. Burke was obviously fed up with their situation. So was Butch, but nothing could be done about it.

"If you're so damn bored to tears, why don't ya go and have a little bath?" he asked impatiently.

Burke looked out at the deluge which the two outlaws had been taking shelter from. About twenty paces away from the overhang of the rock wall where they were hiding he could see the nearby grassy hill was becoming a waterfall.

"I do that," he speculated aloud, "I'll get washed away completely."

"Wouldn't want that, no sir," Butch replied, voice heavy with sarcasm. Noting movement in his peripheral vision, he turned his head to watch his friend yawn once more, this time more genuine.

"You should just go to sleep," he suggested. "Can't be bored sleeping... and you wouldn't be botherin' me out of my skull then."

"I might," Burke said, looking around. "Except if I lay down here, there's not enough room. M'feet would be stickin' out and gettin' all soaked."

Butch rolled his eyes. Eager for some quiet, he straightened his legs. He had just enough space where he sat for the tips of his boots to only get wet if the wind was blowing the rain inward.

"Here," he simply stated, hands indicating his lap.

Burke's moko spread with his grin and he wasted no time accepting the offer. Arms folded, he lay back and rested his head in his partner's lap. He did not bother making any smart-arsed remarks, knowing a rare opportunity to enjoy Butch's generosity when he saw it. Listening to the rain, he suddenly had the troublesome thought that the peaceful moment they were sharing would suddenly come to a violent end by very big loose rocks.

"Don't squirm or nothin'," Butch warned him from about, drawing him out of his concerns. "Else I'd have to put you to work on puttin' somethin' else to sleep. Right under yer head."

Burke smiled again at the thought of Butch's erection whacking him in the back of the head hard enough to wake him.

"I'll try not to."

He hardly expected to fidget in his sleep though. Using Butch as a pillow brought him close to his lover's scent as possible, and the flesh beneath him was warm. He was sleepier than he expected himself to be, and he was out of consciousness within minutes.

Fortunately for them, the rocks stayed put. Burke enjoyed an hour of peace, and thus so did Butch.


	5. Cuddling in a Blanket Fort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Butch happens upon a strange-looking tent.

At the edge of camp sat a peculiar variation of the usual run-of-the-mill tent. Whilst other tents were covered by canvas, this was covered in several overlapping blankets, both of the human and horse variety. At least five sturdy branches had been stuck in the ground, and the interior was illuminated by a lantern.

Inside sat Burke, legs folded, on a set of bedrolls. He heard the jangle of a certain snakeskin set of boots approaching. At the entrance a set of legs in dark pinstripe strode into view, pausing before their owner leaned forward, looking inside.

Burke grinned brightly. "Come in!"

"What the hell is this?" Butch asked.

"It's an impenetrable fortress," Burke answered matter-of-factly, then added, "I've commandeered it from Frank."

Giving the blanket construction a second look, he finally muttered, "thought so."

Burke enthusiastically waved his hands in a beckoning motion. Grimacing for a second, his fellow outlaw finally accepted the invitation, and crawled inside on his hands and knees, feeling a little bit foolish as he did so.

"Not much room in here," Butch gruffly remarked, removing his hat as he took a seat in the center.

"Ye should be thankful," his Irish friend responded. "If Frank still had it, he would've lit it with candles."

Butch nodded assent. "Damn awful waste of supplies." He looked around at the cramped area. "So... what do ya do in a shit reinvention of a tent?"

"Not much." Burke nuzzled the slope between Butch's nose and cheek. "And that sadly doesn't include a good roll in the linens. But if yer interested in turnin' in..."

They would have to lay very close together in the small space, but the chill of the night air made their close contact necessary. As they lay on their sides, Butch embraced the other outlaw from behind. Burke sighed happily as he squeezed the arms encircling him.

"D'ye wanna know a secret?" he asked, just as his partner was starting to fall sleep.

"Mmn."

"Frank actually made this _for_ us."

Butch was not surprised by this new bit of information either.

"Damn considerate of him," he muttered.

Burke nearly continued the conversation when he felt the arms around him relax, signaling that Butch had gone to sleep. Snuggling in closer, he did the same.

Frank's little fortress was a success.


	6. Sharing a Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke wakes next to Butch, a welcome sight indeed.

Though he had grown accustomed to sleeping in Burke's close presence, Butch Cavendish was still easy to wake. Doing so next to another body had its disadvantages, such as the stubborn instinct to escape or defend himself against the sudden presence, but these only lasted less than a second. He turned over to see what his friend had been doing to have roused him from sleep.

Ruadhri Burke trembled where he lay. Occasionally his head would toss back and forth. The gloss of a thin coat of sweat seemed to exaggerate the bobbing of his Adam's apple and the quivering of his illustrated chin. A tiny whimper escaped his lips.

Brow knit in intrigue, Butch watched a little longer as his lover fitfully dreamt before finally granting mercy, waking him with a palm to the cheek. Burke gasped as he woke, his eyes glassy with the remnants of fear. He rubbed at his eyes as he caught his bearings, memories of his terror already fading.

"What did you dream?" Butch plainly asked.

"It's going now," Burke said with a dismissive wave. "Don't remember much." Whether or not this was true was presently unclear. Butch would have to investigate further one day.

"But I hate that feelin'," the Irishman added, absent-mindedly picking at the edge of the linen sheet covering them. "That fear."

Butch shrugged. "S'why I don't have'em. Maybe you should do the same."

Burke gave him a bemused grin. "That easy, aye?" He rolled over to face Cavendish, giving him a peck on the lips.

"Can't just stop," he declared. "Some of them involve you. Those I'd rather keep."

He was rewarded with a nip against his lips, though not hard enough to draw blood. He leaned back again, arching his spine to stretch.

"When I sleep, I'll think only of ye, then maybe I'll see nothing else."

Butch broke into a guffaw at the assertion. "I thought you wanted to stay away from nightmares."

"Aye," the other man replied. "Ye'll scare'em all away."


	7. Reading a Book Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Investigating the extent of Burke's education.

As Butch settled down in bed, he watched Burke wander about their shared room. Though the farmhouse held a tiny library downstairs, this room held shelves full of even more books.

The Irish outlaw pushed one of the tomes with his index finger until it touched the wall. He sneered. "All this nonsense is making m'skin crawl. Reminds me of school."

Butch tilted his head in curiosity. He remembered Burke mentioning once - perhaps braggingly - that he was not the most educated man. He wondered something and decided to address it aloud.

"Can ya read?"

"Mostly." Burke's answer is without hesitation. Perhaps a little too much so.

"What'sat mean, _mostly_?"

He expected to get a silent response, some refusal to answer. Instead Burke gave a somewhat sad smile and turned away, looking at the shelves on the far wall instead of Butch.

"Usually don't need to read. And if I do, I just look it over quick, recognize enough words to get the point." He looked back again, his smile became more genuine. "I'm far more interested in counting. As in counting money. But I _can_ read."

"Hmm," Butch replied with a slant of the eyebrow, not looking convinced whatsoever. Glancing aside, he reached over to the bedside table, plucking one of the books from the small shelf. He held it up to Burke.

"Prove it."

A sneer warped marked skin and he laughed disparagingly. "Oh for the love of Christ..."

"C'mere before I drag ya over and tie ya down."

Lips thinned until the first dark line of moko vanished. He finally obeyed, planting himself on the bed next to Butch, who opened the book to its title page.

"What's that word?" he asked, pointing at a particularly long bit of print on the title page.

Burke gazed at it and already his brain felt as though it were falling asleep.

"Courtesy," he tried lazily. "How'd I do?"

"Your guess is good as mine," Butch said with a chuckle, then looking again and correcting the two of them. "No, 'correspondence'!"

"Fine, correspondence," Burke echoed, looking closer. "'Rollo's Correspondence'."

"Now read me a bedtime story," Butch commanded, leaning back and resting on the pillows. His friend chuckled.

"If I do that, I think I'll be fallin' asleep before you do." Looking back, his grin faded when he saw the stern, expectant frown from Butch. He sighed.

"Fine, ye want proof, I'll give ye proof." Shoulders bunched, he turned the page, peered at the print, and proceeded. " _One day, when Rollo was about seven or eight years old, he was sick_."

"Keeeep goin'," Butch said, eyes shut and hands laced beneath his head.

" _He was not very sick; but he was so sick that he had to have an elephant in a frock spank his little seven or eight-year-old bottom with a shuttlecock racket_."

He felt a jerk of movement on the bed as Butch's head popped up in sudden confusion. Burke grinned wickedly.

"Oh good, yer paying attention."

Butch scowled. "Shithead."


	8. Sharing Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke finds a treat, Butch is unimpressed... at first.

Butch was lounging on a sofa in the parlor of the old farmhouse after his dinner. The rest of the gang had enjoyed sausages and beans (though no one looked forward the smells which would be resulting when they bedded down), whilst their leader had treated himself to another souvenir from their most recent crimes. Not only did he enjoy a heart, but a set of eyes which he slyly ate off of the end of his knife, as though they were hors d'oeuvres. Now he lay with his boots crossed and his hat over his eyes, enjoying his isolation when his men were mingling elsewhere.

As he reclined, he heard footsteps approach, likely belonging to Burke, because of course Burke would bother him just as he had a moment of peace and quiet. As the creak of a wobbly door signaled his visitor's arrival, he lifted his hat by the brim and saw his suspicion confirmed.

Burke leaned against the doorframe, holding a book as an improvised serving tray. On it sat two mason jars half full with milk and a plate holding a stack of cookies. As he drew near the sofa, Butch warily pointed at the milk.

"That's from Frank's goat, isn't it?"

Burke hesitated to answer, but finally replied with, "it's possible, what of it? Dora worked very hard on it."

Cavendish rolled his eyes. Ever since Frank decided to take in the scraggly old animal from the farm of the rancher they had just double-crossed, Butch had a feeling he was going to regret allowing the young man's little pet. It was by far the largest companion he had seen Frank adopt, much more cumbersome than a mole or a damn quail chick.

"Dora," he repeated, shaking his head at the fact that the nanny goat even had a name, but of course it did. Nevertheless, Frank's occasional "adoptions" somehow granted his sun-fried brain focus in the grand scheme of things. However, the moment its bleating gave them away to an enemy, Butch was roasting it on a spit.

Taking a seat next to him, Burke presented his serving up close. Butch sat up to inspect the dessert and sneered at the rocklike discs which had to have been stored in the house's pantry for the last several years.

"Open up, fella," Burke said. "Ye must still have some room for a little after-dinner treat."

His friend cringed. "Naw, I'm full. 'Sides, those look anythin' but worth eatin'."

"Hey now," Burke responded, pulling the "tray" closer to himself as though protecting his treat. "Any cookies are worth eatin'."

Smiling, Butch gestured for the food to be brought back. "You can have the cookies. I'll take the milk."

"Fine, more for me," Burke replied dismissively. As he shoved one of the cookies into his mouth, Butch took a careful sip, deliberated, then kept drinking. Maybe the goat wasn't so bad to have around after all.

Quickly polishing off the first jar's worth, he happened to notice a peculiar look on his companion's face. Burke was still chewing on the same cookie he had begun with, his inked jaw rotating like a cow working on its cud. His dessert was clearly anything but delicious, and the sight made Cavendish grin.

"What'sa matter, they too old?"

"Der rewwy dry," Burke finally managed after further strained chewing, mouth still full. It seemed to him that the more he chewed, the worse the mess became. Perhaps he had mistaken cookie shaped pieces of gravel and mud for food.

As he finally swallowed, pain evident in his expression, he reached for the second jar, coughing, but Butch pulled the milk out of his reach.

"Ah-ah! This is mine!" the other outlaw declared with a laugh.

His coughs reaching a crescendo, Burke doubled over, and he felt a firm hand slap his back to loosen the gritty remnants of the cookie. By the time he had gone past choking and could properly breathe again, his voice was a rasp meant to be a growl, but it came out as a whisper:

"I 'ate ye," he croaked.

Butch laughed. "I love hearin' ya talk sweet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dora finally makes her debut. She's been behind the scenes for a while now, I just needed the right time to introduce her.


	9. Shoulder Rubs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang escapes the law with a few bumps and bruises. Burke personally sees to Butch's aches.

The Cavendish gang had escaped the law once again, and though all came out alive, not all were unscathed. Butch had twisted himself in an unexpected fashion in the process of shooting his pursuers on horseback, and he felt the sharp twinge in his shoulder as though he had been pierced. Even a day later as the gang finally found a place to hide, something still snagged at his muscle and bones as he moved it.

Whilst the other men ascertained their own wounds and supplies, Burke grabbed a copper cup and a bottle of whiskey and went looking for his unsociable friend. Torso stripped down to his shirtsleeves, Butch had secreted himself away in a copse of trees, his prostrate body draped limply over a fallen branch. Clearly isolation had been a greater priority than absolute comfort.

"Somethin' for the pain?" Burke offered, kneeling in front of Cavendish and presenting the bottle and cup. Staring for a few seconds, Butch reached with his unhurt arm and grasped the cup, waiting for Burke to pour so that his sprained shoulder could remain unaffected. He took a shot of the drink in one gulp.

As he winced during an attempt to shift his position, Burke gave him a puckish smile.

"Yer gettin' old, my lovely," he said.

Butch scowled up at him. "How would you like a handful'a broken fingers?"

Burke poured him another shot of whiskey, a wordless apology. His lover downed the shot without hesitation.

"How is it, fella?" he asked, all mischief gone from his voice and expression. "Is it any better?"

"Well... it ain't busted ribs."

Burke smiled at him sweetly, hesitating to touch him before drifting a few fingertips against the hand which held the copper cup. "Aye, ye'll have an easier go at this than those ribs, I hope."

Butch grunted in assertion, wincing again as he attempted to stretch his spine. His Irish friend gained an idea and, considering it, finally acted. He put down the bottle and leaned against the branch where Cavendish lay, gently sending nimble white fingers up the other's back.

Butch tensed under the hands, lifting and turning his head after he felt them squeeze near his neck.

"Ya gonna choke me?" he complained.

"Relax," the Irishman said softly. "It'll be fine. Take off yer shirtsleeves, let me explore a bit?"

A sigh escaping through his nose, Butch lifted himself on his undamaged arm. "Hurry up."

He groaned in pain and hence annoyance as his shirt was helped off of him. He hoped this special treatment would be worth the aggravation, considering how skilled and lissom Burke's hands were.

Within seconds, his confidence was confirmed, though Burke had barely touched the strained shoulder yet. So engrossed was Cavendish to the massage that he thought he might fall asleep. When the beautiful white hands lingered near his neck, he turned his head and nipped it, though rather gently by his view. It was, for him, a bite of affection.

"Good?" Burke asked, rather pleased with himself.

"Hm," Butch only said.

The Irish outlaw continued to rub, looking over the storybook that was the skin of his lover's back. Even in the shade of the trees towering over them, Burke could see Butch's scars. Some were small and round, clearly bullet wounds, while others were long and thin, the work of edged weapons. Each varied in shape and age, and though the oldest of the scars worried Burke's brain of the distant years where Cavendish was an imprisoned, ill-treated boy, the others not only distracted him but brought him an odd sense of enjoyment. These scars were not marks of Butch's tortured youth but of the many chapters made up of his long-standing career as a creature of myth. Burke kissed some of the marks and finally pressed into the injured shoulder.

A grunt and a flinch signaled the still present pain of the arm, but Butch did not object otherwise. In fact he seemed to go ever limp under his lover's hands. The notion was such that Burke began to alternately harden in his trousers at the self-satisfaction of his achievement.

After another minute or so of the massage, Butch wiggled and pushed the hand of his unscathed arm under himself. Burke had a suspicion of what was going on, but said nothing, patient to have the answer eventually revealed to him. Giving an audible, pleasurable sigh, Cavendish turned over less than a half minute later and something bobbed, drawing Burke's vision downward. His eyebrows reached for his hairline as he observed the way his companion's stiff organ seemed to nod at him in approval.

Butch smirked. "Now how about the front?"


	10. One Reacting to the Other Crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang scores some peyote and it all goes downhill from there.

One day Butch chose to do business with the Apache. Though none of the gang opposed the decision, all were silently afraid. Their leader was willing to make deals with the tribe as they were rivals of the Comanche, which Cavendish had preyed upon countless times in the past, but the Apache were persistent enemies for a reason. The tribe was a fiercely impressive warrior race, a quality Butch admired, and the gang faced the chance of being greeted anything but warmly. Even Barret worried they would come away from this meeting scalped at best, tortured to death at worst.

Fortunately for them, the outnumbering group of Apache which congregated with the gang had brought a white slave fluent in Lipan. The pleading, desperate look in the unfortunate bastard's eyes could not be more obvious in his attempts to be rescued, but Butch gave him a lofty smile, not even vaguely interested in the translator's plight.

The trade went along without any drawbacks, much to the relief of all involved. In exchange for extra horses and ammunition (including a bundle of Burke's dynamite), the Indians granted the gang medical supplies, including the added bonus of peyote.

"Careful," the translator added. "It's very potent."

The gang chuckled, eager to try the legendary remedy to all rational thought.

Saying their (guarded) goodbyes, both groups parted ways. Burke rode up next to Butch, a sly smile altering his moko.

"No double-crossing this time?" he asked with a wink.

"Naw, I already got the Comanches on my back," Butch replied with a small laugh. "Apaches oughta keep'em away for a while."

*

Butch's gang was practically jumping on the peyote by the time they finally set up camp. They crowded around the substance like vultures at a carcass, but none dared to try it first. For all they knew, the Apache diplomats had gifted them with something tainted. In the fading light of the evening, Phin closely examined the appearance of the cacti, turning them over a few times.

" _Looks_ alright," he observed. "Who wants to try it first?"

Though eager to experience the thrill of the hallucinogen, the men still feared the possibility of deliberate poisoning.

"I'll give it a go."

Some rolled their eyes at Burke's instant offering, but all of the men were glad to have a test subject for the cactus. Within seconds he was chewing on a sample, grimacing from the taste, yet continuing to chew.

"I'm feelin' nuthin'," he said around the clump. "Gimme more."

Shaking his head, Barret gave him another small piece, chuckling a bit at the renewed disgust on the tattooed face.

"It shouldn't take much else to affect you," the other outlaw remarked.

"I hope so, brother," Burke replied with a grin. "Never tried it before."

Barret's palm collided with his own face.

*

"Is this supposed to happen?" Burke asked, wiping at his stubbornly watery eyes.

"I reckon," Barret answered, pleased at the frustration of the other man's first-time experience. In fact, the Irishman looked to be weeping despite facts to the contrary. The rest of the gang - except for Butch, who wanted no part of the hallucinatory journey - laughed at Burke's reaction, laughing harder when he told them to sod off.

So far, so good.

An hour later, Burke had thrown up until he had nothing to purge, much to the apprehension (not to mention disappointment) of the gang. By the time someone offered him some water, he chugged it down, sat for a moment, and then dove for the dirt as though thinking himself near a body of water. Skinny barked out a giggle at the sudden outburst, leading the others to laugh, Burke's laughter being by far the loudest. It appeared that the peyote was not poisoned.

Despite this fact, the power of the drug's affect on their tattooed fellow outlaw was going beyond amusing and into the territory of annoying... and possibly dangerous. When he whipped out his big knife and attempted to obtain Skinny's beard for pipe weed, the gang considered bodily holding Burke down.

"That's enough now, Burke," they told him. "Give us the knife and calm down..."

"NO!" he snapped petulantly, dodging the reaching hands. "I'll do whatever I please!"

Without a word, Butch stood up from where he had been viewing the spectacle and grabbed Burke by the collar of his neck, jerking him backwards and grabbing the knife in the moment his lover was distracted.

"That's enough," he warned. "Settle down and just enjoy it, ya dumb shit."

Burke wiggled out of his grip, snapping his teeth at the other man like a weasel. His hazel eyes were wild with a sudden panic and fury.

"Yer all against me! Stay back!"

He madly waved his arm, forgetting he no longer had his knife and slashing at the air with absolutely nothing. Unimpressed, the gang watched as Phin crept up behind the drugged Irishman, only to be slammed in the nose by an inked fist.

Burke careened into the night, cackling and flinging off his clothes. His pale complexion allowed his naked backside to be visible for quite some time before he utterly disappeared in the darkness.

"Uh boy," Ray said.

"Maybe we should hold off on the rest of this until he comes back," Barret suggested, looking at the cactus. "Make sure it doesn't kill him first."

An hour later, the gang heard what they initially thought to be a wolf but quickly realized was Burke. Butch finally stood up and grabbed a lantern and spool of rope, mounting his horse. He did not need to make any explanation for his men to know he was going to search for their drugged comrade and bring him back, possibly even restrained if he put up a fight. Lighting the lantern, he took off.

Finding the crazed little naked idiot was easy, as Butch was able to follow the commotion in the dark. Though Burke had covered a great distance on foot, his carrying on brought his friend ever closer, until Cavendish reached him in less than a quarter hour.

 _And none too soon_ , he thought, riding closer to the pacing, anxious sight before him. Burke was wandering in a circle of approximately ten feet, and he scrubbed at his face in an attempt to stop tears which had obstinately returned to his condition. This time the tears were from more than just the physical effects of the cactus. When Butch dismounted and called his name, Burke flinched violently, yelping in fear.

"Burke, let's go back to camp," the older outlaw said, gesturing toward the horse.

At first Burke babbled unintelligibly, gesturing upward as though pointing out something anyone would have been a halfwit not to notice. He rushed over to Butch as though looking for protection, and the behavior was beginning to get unsettling. As illustrated hands tightly gripped at clothed shoulders, Butch noted a stream of snot creeping down Burke's sniveling face.

"It's so scary!" he wailed.

" _What_ is??" Butch demanded to know.

"The sky!"

Silence followed the answer, short of Burke's simpering.

"Are you serious?"

"It's everywhere!" Burke insisted, angry in his tears and horror and shaking Butch by the lapels of his coat. "And it's SO BIG!"

"You're being ridiculous," Butch retorted. Burke did not care. He hid his face against Butch, sobbing into the older man's shoulder.

"It won't stop looking at me," he whimpered.

Butch gave a long, heavy sigh. He resisted the (deep) urge to throttle Burke and decided to be diplomatic, albeit with a much more personal approach than with the Apache.

"What's this now?" he said, gently pushing the other man off of him for examination. "What's this sad face?"

Burke tried to speak, but only a blubbering, indecipherable mess escaped his lips. Butch undid his neckerchief and wiped at the stubborn flow of tears before him.

"C'mere." He wrapped his arms around the younger outlaw, holding him tight, reassuring. "Ease up there, Burke."

Now that he had his tearful friend within his grasp, Butch considered knocking him out with a punch in order to return to camp peacefully, but he soon began to feel the other sag against him. Burke was calming to the point of falling asleep.

"Good," Cavendish said softly. "Good."

Burke whined as he was hefted over his lover's shoulder, like a child objecting to a nap. He passed out seconds later, not even roused when he was lashed to the horse and his wrists and ankles were tied. Thankful for small miracles, Butch rode back to the campsite.

*

The next morning, Burke seemed not only back to normal but quite embarrassed over his wild night. He likely remembered everything, based on the way he glowered during breakfast. The gang began to make snide remarks, though not on his previous reaction to the cactus.

"Did the peyote take away your damn voice?" Barret asked with a smirk. Burke only glared.

"Oh, is Burke still here?" Skinny asked, joining in the mockery. "It's so quiet I thought he was gone!"

A knife spun past his ear, lodging itself into the tree behind him.

"Just so ye know," Burke finally spoke. "I hadn't meant to miss."

The peyote had been left alone for the remainder of the night, and was wrapped in a bundle as the gang packed up to leave. Butch only decided not to take revenge on the Apache tribe when he realized the upside to the situation: it was agreed by all that this particular peyote worked better as a weapon, and none of the gang sampled it ever again. As such, Butch later realized with some amusement that he was quickly able to annoy Burke by simply bringing up his bad reaction to the drug.


	11. Back Scratches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold weather brings dry skin (Burke is a snuggly puppy).

Snow fell wet enough to make a noisy impact against the window. Despite the heavy dampness of the weather, it did not follow inside the farmhouse where Burke and Cavendish slept. They hardly needed rotting wood to be encouraged by heat and sprouting mold while they enjoyed their winter.

The pair of outlaws lay bundled up under layers of blankets and skins, fast asleep. The fireplace had been lit down in the parlor, though the flames were not quite enough to reach every part of the house, not when Butch's gang had to be discreet. They had the luck to find two sets of long underwear in their bedroom's closet, and they presently wore them as they slept, as inconvenient as it was if the occasion called for a few little romantic romps beneath the covers.

A rocking of the mattress awoke Butch instantly, though when he turned over to face his lover, he did not find him experiencing another nightmare. This time, despite his closed eyes, Burke was fully awake, based on his annoyed exhales and squirming. The Irishman would stop, wiggle, and then scratch at himself, mostly his back.

Patience lost, Butch finally propped himself up on his elbows, frowning at Burke in the darkness.

"Ya got fleas or somethin'?"

The younger man opened his eyes, looking at him. "Damn wintertime, makes me bloody itchy."

Butch lay on his back and shut his eyes. Burke wiggled even more. Less than five minutes passed before the older man turned to face him again.

"Turn the hell over."

Burke squinted at him in confusion. "What?"

"Turn over before I change my mind."

Not about to ignore an opportunity when it presented itself, Burke rolled so that his back was facing Cavendish.

"Drawers off."

"Right, right, much obliged." The Irish outlaw unbuttoned the long underwear, wriggling out of it as quickly as possible without tearing the seams. The two had been lucky their discovery had only a few holes from moths, and neither were about to ruin their otherwise perfectly good pairs of long-johns. Burke shivered when his skin was exposed to the chilly air, though the sensation was a brief respite from the irksome tickle on the pale surface which had not yet been marked by ink.

The instant he felt untrimmed fingernails run down his back, Burke felt he was in heaven. He sighed contentedly as the nagging itch was driven away, relaxing boneless into the bed as though in post-coital ecstasy.

"Mmn," he softly moaned as the scratching continued. "How sweet of you."

"Sweet nothin'," Butch grumbled, his wry smile presently unseen. "If it makes you stop tossin' and turnin', you can let me sleep."

Burke was in too much bliss to care. He nuzzled the pillow beneath his head and thought he might fall asleep from the treatment, a lullaby through physical contact. It did not last nearly long enough, replaced by the tugging of his long underwear around him again, as well as the blankets and furs.

"Now hold still," Butch commanded, wrapping his arms around Burke's wiry figure. "Maybe then we can get us some sleep."

The cold had swiftly ceased from being a relief, and Burke welcomed the warmth of his partner's body pressed against him. He could stay here forever if he could. The only thing which could make it better was the view of a burning church.

"Can't guarantee I'll stop itchin'," he noted aloud.

"Don't worry," Butch replied. "If you start squirmin' again, I can always just toss ya in the snow."

For the rest of the night, Burke stayed very still.


	12. Head Scratches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burke's drunk again and being a bother. Butch humors him.

Most of the time whenever Burke asked for very intimate favors, he was drunk. This was the case one evening when Butch was sitting watch at the campsite which was stationed before a rock wall. The rest of the gang had decided to sleep away their drunkenness, but Burke was stubborn, especially when he and Cavendish were the only ones awake. Butch could have preferred otherwise. Couldn't he have one night of peace and quiet, damn his stupid friend's inebriation.

Burke sluggishly nuzzled against him like a cat, desperate for attention.

"Rub my head." The request was muffled against the shoulder of Butch's coat. Cavendish rolled his eyes.

"I'm a mite busy," he replied. The nuzzling became stronger, and Burke began to butt his head against the other outlaw, nudging him to and fro. When Butch extended and straightened his arm, hand against his Irish companion's face, Burke was unfazed, nuzzling instead against the palm.

"Pleeeeeease?" he slurred, grabbing at the folds of his friend's coat. Butch sighed. If he had his druthers, he would have refused the company, but he did not want the younger outlaw waking the rest of the gang with his noisy attempts at affection... despite the fact that his men had gone far beyond suspicion and were well aware of what was going on between their leader and sometime ally.

"Ya want yer hair played with, fine," he retorted, closing the arm-length distance between them. "Just shut up with yer whinin'."

Burke willingly collapsed into Butch's lap, looking to be in bliss the moment his scalp was touched. Cavendish twirled his fingers in the other's hair as he rubbed and scratched. He was tempted to yank as he had once done before, but Burke's present behavior was preferable to his drunken begging. In fact the sounds the younger outlaw was making were near orgasmic. As a forearm moved near his face, Burke kissed the inside of his lover's wrist.

Curious as to just how much his intoxicated friend was enjoying the attention, Butch turned Burke toward him and his suspicions were confirmed. Burke's cock was straining against the leg of his trousers, looking quite strangled. Butch finally smiled, tracing the outline of the tented bulge and causing a tremor to pass through his friend. Unbuttoning the trousers and yanking them down, he gazed over the upright stiffness which seemed to salute him.

"Odd to think..." he noted aloud. "Sometimes I forget how big that is."

Burke hummed in satisfaction, tenderly grasping the wrist connected to the hand which examined him. He was pleased when his fellow outlaw shifted and moved to settle on top of him... until he realized no clothes were coming off. Butch proceeded to lay flush against him, pinning the erection down between their bodies.

"Aw!" he whined.

"You go to sleep now," Butch advised him tersely. "Rest off some'a that whiskey, and maybe if your head's hurtin' tomorrow, I _might_ just give it another rub."

"Ye spoil me," Burke muttered, already having forgotten about the possibility of the two of them getting intimate. Wrapping his inked arms around Butch in a clumsy but well-meaning hug, he soon fell asleep. Sighing again, Butch patiently waited for the other's arms to go limp before rising and returning to his prior duties.

Burke would no doubt be hung over in the morning. If he somehow remembered the offer of another head scratching, he would be told he had been imagining things. Butch smirked as he sat watch. If Burke could be a huge pain in the ass, he could play at that game too.


	13. Forehead or Cheek Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jésus found some sweaters. Butch wants some extra warmth from Burke.

Burke suspected he would never hear Butch say the classic proclamations of love, those three little words which came so easily to most people, but he did not mind. Endearments did not always sound as people expected them to. Plenty of folk said "I love you" and never meant it, while others expressed their adoration in far more creative ways. Case in point, the look on Cavendish's face, and the gentle admonishing tone, whenever he told Burke, "you're soft in the head."

Tonight brought Burke a new example of Butch's unconventional declarations. Winter winds were hitting hard, and the gang, nowhere near proper shelter, had made their own contributions for keeping warm. Some gathered animal skins, and Jésus had come into possession of a parcel full of thickly cable-knit pullovers. He had never mentioned where exactly the parcel had come from, but the source had also provided a high-waist skirt, which Frank eagerly grabbed up and used as incentive to do any of Jésus' chores for the next day or so.

Night fell with little else to be done willingly but eat and bundle up into balls of blankets, skins, and jumpers. A few drank some whiskey in an attempt to bring some heat from within. Wearing one of the pullovers himself and cozying under a set of blankets, Burke was enjoying his own drink while he waited for Butch to come join him.

When he sought out Burke, Butch was drunk on top of exhausted. He stumbled over to where the other man lay on his bedroll, blearily scrutinizing the heavy grey jumper his friend was wearing. With all the grace of a rock slide, he sank to his knees and landed on Burke with an "oof".

Burke did not mind the stink of whiskey on the other's breath as they engaged in clumsy, wet kisses. Any attention paid him suited him just fine. The sluggish bites over his skin only made him smile, and he loved the way the seemingly permanent stubble scraped against his cheek, tickling him.

Whatever was left of Butch's strength gave out, and he rested his full weight against the other outlaw, plucking at the knit material beneath him. Burke thought the older man was going to fall asleep until he heard a husky voice slur.

"Gimme."

Burke lifted his head with a bemused smile. "Pardon?"

Not bothering to explain, Butch sluggishly heaved himself upward and removed the blankets between their bodies, bringing an automatic shiver out of Burke. The older outlaw then lifted the bottom hem of his lover's cable-knit jumper and burrowed inside it like some overgrown gopher. Buzzed from his own helping of alcohol, Burke yelped in surprise and thereafter immediately laughed, not only from hilarity but the ticklish sensation of an extra body sharing the space of the stretched pullover.

"Now _we're_ the caterpillars," Butch announced with a grin. Burke was puzzled until he thought of Frank, curled up in blankets, and he chuckled again.

"Hate t'think what we'd turn into," he remarked. Both men's movement inhibited, they still managed to kiss several times more. Butch left a sloppy kiss on Burke's cheek before he rested his head and shut his eyes.

Burke enjoyed the quiet between them, the closeness they shared inside the jumper. How could Butch not love him back when he did things like this? After a few minutes, he tried to reach for the blankets again in case their shared warmth would not be enough for the rest of the night, but having Butch essentially stuck to him made sitting up impossible.

"... Butch?"

No answer. Butch was fast asleep. Burke smiled; better to not take the moment for granted, or else waking the other outlaw would likely end the moment. And ruin the jumper.


	14. Bathing or Showering Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang arrives at a river, where warm fuzzies are to be had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was meant to come later in the drabbles, but it was already complete, and I felt bad not having updated anything in the series in a while.

After so many days of riding through miles and miles of desert, he gang leapt at the opportunity the moment they spied a river. Water had not been a problem during their journey when it came to drinking, but each man was coated in dirt and dust. Upon their arrival at the river, one of the new men, an Englishman by the name of Hughie, claimed he could have knocked several ounces of sand out of his ear.

Grown men became like children in their enthusiasm to free themselves from the vestiges of bone-dry desert, running full force into the water even before stripping themselves naked. Tossing their soaked clothing to the rocks on the bank, their joy was enough to spur them on to the point of play. By the time all were fully nude, Burke was already gleefully chasing the young ones, giving a shrill giggle as Frank tripped and fell face first into the water. Butch shook his head; that maniacal laugh could likely be heard for miles.

Though just as pleased to have gotten a bath after so many miles of dust, Butch hardly even smiled. Instead, he walked up river. Burke, having granted Skinny his share of a good dunking, noticed the gang's leader leaving the fun and negotiated the crowd to (hesitantly) do the same. Jésus, still eager to cause chaos, tackled Ray and dragged him under the surface with a bellowing laugh.

Butch going off by himself was no surprise, as he preferred to bathe in solitude, much like anything else the gang did. Nearby was a waterfall, and he headed straight for it, caring little for the horseplay of his men.

"That's strange," he uttered, pausing in his gait, "you gettin' bored of alla that tomfoolery."

"Of course," Burke replied with a smile. He tilted his head, appreciating the sight of his lover's bare backside. "I find m'self engrossed by somethin' much more appealin'."

Butch scratched his ass and continued walking. He swore he could practically hear the wide, toothsome grin spreading on the other's inked face.

Burke followed the older outlaw to the waterfall, watching him enter, soak himself, then reappear, still standing under the spray. His drenched hair clung to him like a second skin.

"Ya gonna join in, or ya gonna stay out there stinkin' of spuds and liquor?"

"Someone's gotta make sure ye're not still smellin' like shite," Burke replied, not skipping a beat. "And I may be the only one who you'll allow to pick the roaches from yer hair!"

This finally won Burke a smile from his companion.

"Then get in, ya shit-nugget!" he demanded with a wicked grin.

Burke did not have to be asked twice. He hurried into the falls, nearly slipping on the slick stones as he joined the other outlaw. Butch held a firm grip on his Irish friend's wrists as he advised the other to lean back. The impact of the water was so great that Burke might have laughed if not for risk of drowning.

"All the river is comin' down upon me!" he exclaimed with a mad glee.

"Hate to think what'd happen if a thunderstorm came by too," Butch muttered. He had noticed after so many meetings with Burke that the strange little tattooed maniac almost seemed to live off of these things: booming noise, harsh touch, whatever might make any normal man uneasy or aggravated in any way. If Butch bit him as they fucked, he only moaned in pleasure, sometimes even bit back in encouragement. The little fool was happiest in the fight, in the chaos and commotion of fire and explosion. It was almost too much for Cavendish himself to deal with.

The pair of outlaws bathed quickly under the falls, sneaking (and catching) admiring looks at one another's unclad forms. Butch was done first, and he watched as Burke sat under the deluge, grinning ear to ear as the water beat down on him.

"Are ya done?" Butch asked tersely. "Or am I gonna have to drag you out by the balls?"

Burke wanted to stay behind, no matter how suspicious it looked to the rest of the gang. As much as the other men likely knew of his and Butch's relationship, as well as seeming to still respect - and fear - him just as much as before, Butch still preferred a certain amount of privacy. Biting his bottom lip, obscuring the uppermost line of dark blue ink, Burke wondered just how much of himself could be seen behind the wall of water, just how much he could get away with behind this wall.

"Alright, I'm comin'," he replied, rising to his feet and moving to follow the other man out to the bank. This time, however, he did not watch his footing.

"OH SHITE"--

The exclamation brought all eyes from the men downriver straight to the waterfall. Butch was above water, clinging to the rock wall and staring down at his fallen friend. All that could be seen of Burke was a pair of white feet sticking out of the babbling surface. Two seconds passed where no one spoke, and Butch suddenly barked out a hearty laugh.

Hearing Butch laugh was extremely rare, and the others could not help joining in.


End file.
